Sanctimonia Non Vincet Semper
by TheCrownprincessBride
Summary: Draco had to learn that hard way that the Latin words inscribed on his family crest are not true - "Purity Will Always Conquer". Fragments of his life during and after the war. AU. LATEST: What would happen if Draco had escaped Malfoy Manor with the Golden Trio.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter. This applies to all following chapters.

 **A/N: Here comes part two of my Short Story Collection. Again, this will be stories I write for the Houses Competition. I hope you enjoy them.**

 **This story in particular is about Draco in his seventh school year. It is most certainly AU - although I like to think that something like this really might've happened. But then, I tend to overlook the bad sides of Draco's character...**

 **Please leave me a review if you've liked this drabble.**

* * *

 _Green Dragon Blood_

* * *

With the Death Eater's mask on his face, Draco Apparated to the northern end of Diagon Alley, right next to the apothecary. The street was deserted, completely desolate. The wind played with a poster of Potter's face, which seemed to stare down on Draco from everywhere – all the empty and closed shops had been plastered with it.

Draco _needed_ Green Dragon Blood for a potion he was brewing, but that wasn't an ingredient Slughorn would hand out to a pupil. Even _if_ it was for a good cause. Even if Draco would happen to tell him why he so desperately needed it.

One late night in the library, he'd stumbled upon an old potion, a variation of what witches used to drink when they were to be burned in the middle ages. It numbed the pain, or so it was said. A powerful potion – maybe even powerful enough to reduce the torture of the _Crucio_ to a mild burning sensation. Draco needed that, his parents needed that. Merlin, half the population of Hogwarts needed such a potion.

But nobody could know what he was doing right now, or he'd be branded a traitor. And he was one, Draco supposed. The consequences of being found out were high, but it would be worth it.

Gathering all the cruel coldness he could master, Draco entered the small stone house with the blind windows. The shop owner looked up, surprised, and then he flinched. "H-how may I h-h-help you, Sir?"

"Green Dragon Blood," Draco said coolly after reaching the counter. "Quickly."

"Yes. Of course. Post-haste," the man stuttered and summoned something with shaking fingers. "Twelve Galleons, Sir."

Draco paled under the mask. He didn't have that much money left, since he could no longer handle his money as freely as he used to. "Here's the first half," he said and put six galleons on the counter. It was the last of his money. "I'll settle the bill next time I'm in Diagon Alley."

"B-but Sir…" the pharmacist began to contradict.

"Don't you trust my word?" Draco interrupted him, rolling up his sleeve threateningly. The ugly, black skull stood in crass contrast to his shockingly pale skin. "Don't worry. You'll get your money."

The man turned a deathly shade of white. "O-o-of course, Sir. I never – I never doubted…"

"Yes, of course, you didn't. The blood, _now_!" Draco demanded impatiently, grabbing the phial the pharmacist offered.

"On which account should I charge it?" the shop owner asked before Draco could turn around and leave.

"Why don't you write down _Death Eater that'll kill you if you bother him again_?" Draco snarled, all patience gone. "Is that specific enough?"

Before the man could utter another word, Draco dashed out of the shop. He quickly checked his surroundings, but the dimly lit street was still empty – not at all like the Diagon Alley that he remembered. Once he was hidden in a dark corner, he Disapparated.

* * *

 _ *****_ _Written for the Houses Competition, Year 2 - Round 2*_

 **House: Ravenclaw**

 **Category: Drabble**

 **Prompt: Diagon Alley**

 **W/C: 490**

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you to** 2DaughtersOfAthena, nottheonlyfangirl, **and** hollyhobbit101 **for betaing.**


	2. Chapter 2

After reaching the Quidditch pitch, Draco put his broom down and began to jog around the field to warm up. Slate-coloured clouds gathered above him, threatening rain, and cold autumn wind blew over the field. Having completed two laps, he fell to the ground, gasping. His muscles already ached uncomfortably and the air burned in his lungs. He couldn't believe how weak he'd become. Only two years ago, he'd have run twice as much without difficulties. But that had been before the war. Now, he was in his eighth year, and _everything_ was different.

Draco watched the clouds until his breathing had slowed. Then he stood up and grabbed his broom, his fingers tracing the familiar angles and lines. His thumb lingered next to the silver letters of his _Nimbus 2001_ for a second, brushing over a scratch that the broom had suffered in his first game.

Should he try it? It was maybe a little too windy, a little too cold, for a casual flight, Draco told himself. He wasn't even sure if he still liked flying. He didn't know if he'd _ever_ liked it, or if he only practised it because he was supposed to. But Draco needed to do something brave, to challenge himself – in baby steps, though. So, flying would be enough for the beginning. Then he'd know if he could face scarier things than his childhood obsessions.

Taking a deep breath, he climbed onto his broom and pushed. In slow circles, he ascended to the morning sky until the Quidditch pitch was in miniature below. Everything looked easier from above, manageable.

The air was fresh and cooled his heated face. But suddenly, a harsh gust of wind hit him and the broom swung sideways, but Draco reacted without thinking and quickly controlled the boom. It only took a small command for his broom to return to a horizontal position. Suddenly, Draco realised he could still do it – fly. He hadn't forgotten anything, and the broom still obeyed even minimal commands. He also realised that flying had never had anything to do with his father's wishes. Quidditch, maybe. But flying itself was freedom.

Draco sped up and zoomed over the Quidditch pitch like he used to do, relishing in the air blowing his hair out of his face, marvelling at the speed his broom was capable of achieving.

He had been so captivated by the new and yet familiar sensation, he didn't notice the two figures that had approached the pitch, two beater's bats and a set of Bludgers in hand, until it was too late.

Draco stopped in mid-air and goggled at them. His stuff still lay on the ground. Should he get it or disappear quietly? He decided to face the situation and landed casually.

"Training for the team?" one of them called over to him, and Draco recognised both of them as the beaters that had played in the Ravenclaw team the last two years.

He ignored them deliberately and hastily gathered his things.

"Hey, we're talking to you, Malfoy," the other one called. Draco saw them exchanging glances and knew he was in trouble. Last year's games hadn't been pretty. If he remembered correctly, Goyle had broken one of the boy's arms with a Bludger during the game, and nobody had called a foul.

"I'm not playing," he said quickly and began walking towards the exit.

A loud swishing sound warned him, and he let himself fall to the ground just in time. A bludger swooshed over him. Turning, he struggled to his feet.

"Are you mad?" Draco snarled, but the boys just laughed.

"Scared of a little Bludger?" sneered the one whose arm had been broken. Rogers or something like that. No - Roach, it was.

Draco shrugged stiffly, climbed onto his broom, and pushed himself into the air. This way he'd be faster. A second later, however, he realised his mistake. The two beaters also mounted their brooms and took to the sky, bats at ready.

Automatically, Draco leaned forward, pushing his broom to its top speed. The fierce wind cut through him, and he felt as though he had hit a wall of air. His heart beat loud in his chest with panic. They were the hunters, and he was the prey. Although Draco's _Nimbus 2001_ was one of the fastest brooms, the Bludger was still faster. It came in a curve from behind, aiming at his body. In the last second, Draco pulled his broom up, but the Bludger still found a way to hit his right knee.

Something cracked.

Hot pain shot through Draco and he bent forward, a muffled scream on his lips. His broom reacted to his involuntary command and dove. Desperately trying to suppress the pain, Draco struggled to control his broom. A strong gust of wind, though, sent him spiralling downwards. As if the Bludger had been spelled, it zoomed back towards Draco, gaining momentum. He saw it from the corner of his eye, and the only thing he could do to protect himself, was using his arms. Reflexively, his hands shot up to cover his face, forgetting to grip the broom. The Bludger collided with his body, catapulting him from his broom.

For a long second, Draco fell; then all air was pushed out of his lungs when he crashed to the ground. Luckily, the fall wasn't deep, but deep enough to hurt like hell. Draco groaned and tried to focus on the blurry figures above him.

"Not so strong without your Death Eater buddies, hm Malfoy?" he heard one of them laugh. The storm played with his blue Quidditch cape, making him seem even more threatening, standing over Draco.

"Do you think that'd count as a foul?" the other one smirked smugly. "I don't think so."

Draco groaned again and rolled to his side. His whole body felt as though it was covered by bruises, and his knee stood in flames.

"Bastard," Draco muttered under his breath and had to fight the urge to reach for his wand. It would do him no good to start a fight now, even if it was self-defence. It would only get him expelled or thrown into Azkaban.

"What _the hell_ do you think you're doing?" an angry female voice suddenly shrieked, and Draco's head snapped up. He saw flaming red hair and an outstretched wand.

"Nothing," Roach answered nonchalantly, smirking at the approaching Gryffindor.

"We're training for the try outs," the other one supplied innocently.

"Oh, the season's over for you two. I'll talk to your captain and make sure he won't let you play. He doesn't need bullies in his team," Ginny snarled, stepping between the Ravenclaws and Draco.

"You can't do that. We didn't do anything!" Draco heard them protest as he sat up.

"Just let it go," he whispered to Ginny, trying to stand, but his knee gave out and he fell awkwardly to the ground.

The Ravenclaw beaters broke into a laugh full of malicious joy, but abruptly, it stopped. Draco glanced up and saw gigantic bats surrounding their heads. B _at-Bogey Hex_ , he realised.

Smiling grimly, Ginny offered him her hand. "Let's get you to the hospital."

"I'm okay," he panted, but accepted Ginny's hand. "Thanks," he choked out, suppressing a whimper when he put weight on his right knee.

"Liar," she hissed. "I saw them hit you with the Bludger, and I saw you fall."

"It's nothing. I …" He faltered under her hard gaze. He wasn't sure why she'd even helped him, but he was grateful for her kindness. Not many had been kind to him since the war.

"A _thank you_ would be nice, you know. After all, I just saved you," Ginny smirked.

"Bloody meddling women," Draco muttered under his breath, but then said loudly, "Thank you. Help me back to the castle, will you?"

She nodded and together they hobbled up the hill into the castle.

* * *

 _ *****_ _Written for the Houses Competition, Year 2 - Round 5*_

 **House: Ravenclaw**

 **Category: Short**

 **Prompt: windy**

 **W/C: 1, 321**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: B** **ig thanks to my betas** nottheonlyfangirl,2DaughtersOfAthena, and hollyhobbit101.

 **This story is a dark one. I hope you'll still enjoy it. Oh, and I made up the name of Theo's father, just in case you're wondering...**

* * *

 _Broken Things_

* * *

Draco woke, gasping for air and with a racing heart. With unseeing eyes, he stared into the all-engulfing darkness and fought with the scream that lay dormant in his throat.

 _It was just a nightmare_ , he tried to tell himself – an especially cruel one, so much was true – adrenaline still pumped through his body. Jerkily, he ripped the curtains open, searching desperately for a ray of light that would confirm he was really back at Hogwarts and not still in his Manor with Voldemort. But the relief he felt when he saw the shapeless shadows of the two four-poster beds was short-lived. His breathing was still ragged and panicked, his pyjamas clinging uncomfortably to his sweat soaked body.

However much he tried, the white face with the red snake eyes just wouldn't go away. It waited behind his eyelids to jump at him whenever he dared to do so much as blink.

With a groan, Draco untangled himself from the sheets and nearly fell to the floor trying to stand up, disoriented and out of balance. He didn't care if he woke anyone while stumbling over to the bathroom, teeth clenched.

The bathroom was gloomy, only one tall window illuminated the white and slate-coloured tiles, which formed a chequered pattern over the floor and the walls. Draco, however, didn't notice any of this. He just floundered to the sink and let cold water run over his hands.

Breathing heavily, Draco stared into the mirror, barely recognising his angular, deathly pale face. Gritting his teeth, he looked back down to the sink to not have to face his ghostly image. He looked like he hadn't slept for days – which was true – and the purple smudges under his eyes contrasted starkly with his chalky white skin.

He had just turned the tap off when a stifled sound alerted him to somebody else's presence. At once Draco froze, checking the mirror to see if somebody stood behind him, but nobody was there. With bated breath, he turned around and tip-toed over to the two shower cubicles where the sound had come from, his body tense, expecting an assault.

His eyes had adjusted to the semi-darkness of the bathroom, and he could clearly see a dark shadow that sat huddled up in the corner, trying to be as small and quiet as humanly possible.

"Theo?" Draco asked cautiously. The other Slytherin was the last person he had expected to find. His mind had already wandered to a possible attacker, who only waited for the right moment.

The silhouette flinched and looked up. Although the light was dim, Draco could clearly see traces of tears on the boy's face. "Go away," Theo choked out.

Draco winced involuntarily. Theo crying? Slytherins – boys at least – didn't cry, didn't show weakness in front of others. He really didn't know how to handle the situation. For a split second, he considered leaving, pretending he hadn't seen anything – undoubtedly the reaction that was expected from him – but he found himself unable to move. It must be something severe for Theo to break down like this, and he couldn't just leave him alone. It felt _wrong_.

So instead he lowered himself to the floor, leaning against the side panel of the cubicle, and said, "I'm not going anywhere. We're friends, remember?"

Theo snorted and tried to discreetly wipe away any evidence of his tears.

"What's wrong?" Draco asked after his friend had stopped rubbing his face, meanwhile tracing the white tiles next to his foot with his index finger. White, black, white, black, white black.

"Nothing," Theo answered harshly; however, he didn't try to leave. Draco could feel Theo's searching eyes on him but deliberately didn't meet his gaze. He didn't dare to yet. He had never seen Theo cry, and he wanted to give the other boy the privacy to pull himself together.

He understood the feeling of inescapable pressure and fear, and how it was enough to bring anyone crashing back down to earth. He understood the burning urge behind the eyes, the restlessness, and, mostly, the unstoppable tears.

So he asked another question. "Why did you come back to Hogwarts? Really, I mean. Not the rubbish you told the others about earning your grades." Theo's NEWTs consisted of solely _Outstandings_ although – according to him – he should have at least failed Ancient Runes last year. But a perfect pureblood prince like him was not allowed to fail in anything. The fake report was too common for it not to be bestowed upon Theo, like any other. Draco understood that the other boy was upset about his obviously fake report, but he didn't _need_ school grades – he, like Draco himself, probably had enough money to live the rest of his days without working a single day.

"It's not rubbish," Theo snapped. "I don't want perfect grades just because I'm pureblood, just because my Dad …" His voice broke.

Draco ignored it deliberately. It was a little too close to home. "But why would you need real grades? For your ego?" The dark-haired boy snorted, but Draco continued, "Seriously! Why go through the horror of school again?" Finally, he looked at Theo and was surprised by the pure despair he found on the other boy's face.

"Nobody'll employ me with that," the Slytherin said without inflection, but Draco knew it was only half of the truth.

"You don't need a job, Theo. None of us do."

Suddenly, a sob escaped Theo's lips and he buried his face in his hands.

"Theo?" Draco asked, alarmed, and reached for him.

Theo quickly backed away and Draco stopped mid-movement.

"Theo?" he repeated. But there was something he'd missed, something he didn't know. Suddenly, the other boy jumped up and rushed past Draco before he could stand up. Theo took out his wand and aimed it at the door, locking it and putting multiple silencing charms on the room.

"What …?" Draco asked, taken aback, but was interrupted by Theo pointing his wand at him.

"Shut up!" the Slytherin bellowed, then suddenly grabbed a chair and hurled it across the room. It crashed against the wall and fell with a loud clatter to the ground, one leg broken. "I have nothing left! Nothing!" He took the second chair and threw it against the off-white toilet cabin, from which it ricocheted and then scraped over the floor with a sickening sound.

"No money!" Theo shoved the bathroom utensils the boys stored in a shelf next to the sinks to the ground where they broke into millions of tiny pieces.

"No heirlooms!" The shelf followed the toothbrush glasses and perfumes, causing glass splinters to shoot through the air like deadly arrows.

"No home!" He drew his arm back and aimed it at the mirror, which shattered after the first blow. Theo, however, didn't stop there, punching the mirror again and again, accompanying each word with another well-aimed box. "No – house – no – family – no – nothing!"

Quickly, Draco caught Theo's wrist before he could hit the mirror again. "Stop!" he yelled and held his arms in a vice-like grip so that Theo was unable to struggle free and destroy more of the furnishing. "Stop it!"

Theo tried one last time to free himself, but then he gave up. At once, his rage seemed to vanish, leaving him empty and broken. Draco felt Theo's violent shivers vibrating through him, as if he was ready to collapse. Very carefully, Draco let go of his wrists. Immediately, the Slytherin backed away against the wall and slumped to the ground, still shaking violently.

Only now did Draco realise what Theo had said. "I- I don't understand," he whispered hoarsely and sat down next to the dark-haired boy.

"I know," Theo breathed. "I know you didn't know. You were caught up in your own problems and your trial..."

"So what happened?"

Theo swallowed. "My Death Eater father managed to get himself k-k-kil –" His voice broke again and Draco gasped. _Theron Nott was dead?_

"When?"

"The battle," Theo choked out, clenching his fists so that his knuckles stood out in white. Draco didn't need to ask which battle. He felt the same oncoming panic he had learned to associate with it, and he knew that Theo felt exactly the same.

"You're bleeding," he exclaimed suddenly, realising his friend had hurt himself punching the mirror. Quickly, he scrambled to his feet and reached for a fresh towel. "I'm sorry, Theo," he whispered, kneeling down with the wet towel in his hands. Gingerly, he reached for the boy's fist, expecting him to flinch back, but he showed no reaction when he grabbed his right hand and started to clean it.

"Don't be," his friend hissed. "He was an asshole, and a Death Eater." Draco swallowed but stayed silent, knowing there was more that Theo wanted to tell. "For that, they convicted him posthumously, seizing all his property. Everything. The Manor, the family vault, the books, the jewellery, everything …"

Draco stood up and let warm water run over the bloody towel. "But … but your vault? And … you're of age! How could they …?!"

Theo barked out a bitter laugh. "Because there was nothing I owned. The Manor was still my father's until I married, which was never going to happen, and my vault …" Theo hesitated. "Suffice to say we had a massive row in the Easter holidays. I made it starkly obvious that I had no intentions of following his footsteps as a Death Eater when I had finished school, even though," he lifted his fingers to sign quotation marks, "his Lordship would gladly welcome me in his ranks." Theo snorted bitterly. "Yeah, as if."

"He took your money because of that?" Draco asked, scandalised, and sat back down, the towel forgotten. He suddenly felt a little dizzy, nauseous even. The Dark Lord hadn't needed to bribe Draco, but, nevertheless, he had never felt the same inclination his father had felt in joining his ranks. Like many of his pureblood friends, he had been pushed towards the darkness and the promise of greater power. The thought haunted Draco, as it haunted every pureblood family, each act in the Dark Lord's name a disgrace. They comprehended each others' situations, but never spoke of it.

"He dissolved my vault and my mother's trust fund, to be precise. And no, not only because of that," Theo answered flatly.

Draco looked questioningly at his friend and waited for him to continue. Theo shifted uncomfortably and opened his mouth to answer, but he stopped himself before any sound came out. Immediately, Draco understood. The fact that Theo was gay had been a well-kept secret between Theo, Pansy, and himself. "How did he find out?" he asked quietly.

Theo flinched and glance at him sidelong. "Dunno. Confronted me, though. And … and I couldn't lie. I don't know why. Maybe because I'd lied about it all my life, maybe because a slight, stupid fraction of my mind thought he might accept me…" Theo sighed. "He told me that, until I came to my senses, I would not receive a single knut of the family's fortune. He really wanted me to marry, to produce an heir." Theo wrinkled his nose in disgust.

"Bastard," was all Draco said.

Theo shrugged. "Yes. But now … now he's gone. And I'm all alone…" He interrupted himself before he could say more.

Now Draco understood why Theo had come back. He had nowhere else to go. "Where did you stay after …?" He paused when he realised he didn't know how to finish that sentence.

Theo shrugged again. "Pansy."

He nodded. That made sense. Pansy, who pretended to be vicious, cold, and mean but inwardly cared so much that she would rather die than let her friends down. "How's she?"

"Not good," Theo answered. "Her mother's trying to force her into marriage. I would've offered myself, but I'm not _desirable_ anymore."

Draco flinched at the bitter tone in Theo's voice. "I didn't know. I didn't know anything," he whispered, turning his head to look at him. He was sorry, so sorry, that he hadn't been there for his friend before, that he hadn't seen how desperate Theo had been. But now he understood everything, every hint, every conversation they'd had in the past month since they were back at Hogwarts. He understood the rage and the loneliness. It was finally revealed. "You know you have a home, don't you? You know you're not alone?" he whispered.

Theo's head snapped around. "What? You want me to live in the Manor with you?"

Draco winced. "No! Not Malfoy Manor. I'm never going back there. I don't care that mother's trying to rebuild it differently – she's writing me her progress every day. I'm not going to step another foot into that cursed house." He shook his head, his fingers tightening around his left arm. "No. What I meant was that I have enough money left for the both of us. I can buy Nott Manor back if you want; if you don't want, we can look for something suitable together."

Theo's sapphire blue eyes scrutinised him - and Draco promptly realised that the room was now light enough to see colour. The sun had snuck over the horizon without either of them noticing. "Why would you help me?"

"Why did you beat someone up for me?" Draco retorted, remembering the occasion he'd been attacked by Ravenclaws for his role in the war. As soon as Theo had found out, he'd marched up to the guys and punched them right in the face.

Theo winced and looked away. "That's not the same."

Draco shrugged, his fingers tracing the tiles again. White, black. White, black. White, black.

He couldn't imagine what Theo had gone through, but he tried. His mother had died when he had been just a baby, and his father had never stopped blaming him for her death – not openly, of course; in public Theron Nott had boasted about how proud he was of his son and heir, but Draco suspected that, behind closed doors, Theo had suffered a lot at his father's hands. But Theron was still his father and, even if part of Theo hated him, another part loved him dearly, despite him being a Death Eater, despite all the abuse. Draco understood that – maybe because his situation was similar. His own father had brought the Voldemort mess upon them, had blindly and eagerly followed a madman, and part of Draco – only a teeny, tiny part – resented him for that.

And now, Theo had nothing. He was not only an orphan but also homeless and broke. Draco felt his lostness, his all-consuming rage that constantly burned inside him, and now he finally understood why, understood his situation.

"I hate him," Theo suddenly choked out, and Draco's head snapped up.

" _Don't_. He's your _father_ , Theo. And I'm sure there was a part of him that loved you."

"Love me?" Theo echoed, sarcasm seeping into his voice. "He never loved me, nor anyone else. He was a terrible father. Just look me in the eyes and tell me he is not the devil, please."

Draco swallowed. "Maybe he was, Theo. But he's dead, dead and gone. He won't hurt you or anyone anymore," he replied hoarsely. "And I think you should forgive him."

Theo snorted again.

"If you want to be mad at someone, be mad at the Ministry. It likes to brand people as evil incarnate." His fingers curled around his left forearm, where the Dark Mark was burned into his skin. "But we'll fight this, I'll hire a lawyer –"

"Don't!" Theo interrupted him. "I tried everything, believe me. Pansy's not poor, as you very well know. I think we spent half her fortune." He smiled bitterly.

"But –" Draco tried to contradict.

"No!" Theo almost yelled and Draco flinched again.

"Why not?" he still asked, unwavering.

"Because there's determination and there's foolishness. I'm done with hoping, I'm done with the Ministry, I'm done with school, and Death Eaters, and Dark Lords, and all the rest of it. I don't care anymore," Theo exploded, and Draco could see how he clenched his knuckles so hard that the encrusted wounds opened again.

"Why are you staying then?" he threw in before Theo could act on his outburst of rage and punch something again.

That seemed to somehow halt him, his whole body froze up and his eyes flickered to Draco. "I have nothing to lose, haven't I?" he finally answered, but again it seemed like only half of the truth.

"That's nonsense," Draco whispered. He had to pull Theo out of his destructive mood, so he said the only thing that came to his mind, "Come on. Give me your essays and I'll proofread them. Your grades will be superb."

The black-haired boy stared at him for a whole minute, unmoving; his breathing slowly went back to normal until he seemed to have calmed down. Then he nodded. "I do need some help in Ancient Runes."

* * *

 _ ***** Written for the Houses Competition, Year 2 - Round 5*_

 **House: Ravenclaw**

 **Category: Themed**

 **Prompt: "** Just look me in the eyes and tell me he is not the devil, please."

 **W/C: 2, 840**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: B** **ig thanks to my betas** nottheonlyfangirl,Celestia0909, **and** hollyhobbit101.

* * *

 **Around Easter 1998**

Fear had been reigning Draco's every moment these last few days. The Dark Lord had ordered him to come home to Malfoy Manor during the Easter holidays. Draco was sure there was a reason behind it – a task maybe, or perhaps a punishment – even though Voldemort had not yet revealed it. Draco wasn't too keen on finding out, to be completely honest. The sole thought of staring the monster in the eyes, faking obedience, made his skin crawl.

Christmas had been dreadful enough. His godfather had put in a good word for Draco, so he could stay at Hogwarts, disappear into the Common Room, and shut the world out. He didn't care about Christmas; he didn't care about much anymore, except survival. At least, the Dark Lord never showed up at Hogwarts, and the Carrows hadn't been present over the Christmas holidays, offering a much needed reprieve.

Having arrived at his second home back in autumn, Draco had come to realise that the Dark Lord had even taken this from him. Malfoy Manor had transformed into his headquarters and it was nothing like Draco's childhood home anymore. Hogwarts, too, felt colder than ever before. The cheering was gone from the corridors, the parties in the Common Rooms were non-existent. Silence reigned in the castle now. Even some teachers had been replaced by Death Eaters to keep a close eye on rebellious students.

Draco, as Head Boy, was expected to be the role model, to do everything the Death Eaters in command asked of him. Just a year ago, Draco would have loved the attention and the fear in everyone's eyes. He would have done anything for the power he now had, being able to deduct points and assign detentions. He would have stopped at nothing. But now, the appeal had faded away. The fear he saw in those around him; and the things he had to do to maintain that power, to survive, like practising the Crucio on First Years... Draco shuddered impulsively. Of course, he obeyed – he _always_ did – but again, it felt terribly wrong. To use the Cruciatus curse, you had to mean it, but Draco didn't, not at all. He no longer yearned to sow fear, and pain, and destruction, to control everyone and manipulate them. However, he couldn't be sure that he faked the curse well enough. They screamed, they _always_ screamed.

He felt like the screams followed him everywhere, even into his nightmares.

Yes, he _had_ wanted power. Now he was realising that he had confused power with respect, had thought if people feared him, he would be able to control them. He realised that everything he had thought he ever wanted was what he didn't want at all.

Draco knew he was a merciless bully and an arrogant asshole. It was in his nature. So why didn't he enjoy taunting the half-bloods, the First Years, and the remaining members of the D.A.? Why did everything feel so bloody _wrong_? He just wished this damn war could be over, so he could go back to his previous life, back to blissful ignorance.

But staring into the dancing flames of the fireplace, he realised that it – that _he_ – would never be the same, no matter which side won. He had seen too many things, felt too many things, to ever be the same boy again. He was sure, though, that he would break if things continued like this. His parents' lives were in danger every day, and Draco was either threatened or had to threaten others. His parents were even more sombre and subdued than usual, barely speaking. They all knew Damocles' Sword was hanging over Draco, and there was no way around it.

It wasn't at all like he had imagined his life as a Death Eater. He had expected to be powerful, proud, a dark prince. But now he was just a spineless coward, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Draco had to admit that he had considered fleeing, but even if he did - where would he go? Who would take him in? His friends couldn't protect him from Voldemort, neither could his parents.

The days had flown by, blending into each other, and the deadly boredom of the holidays balanced out with the dread that had gathered in the pit of Draco's stomach. Voldemort had been busy, and Draco had escaped his plans. For now. Every time, though, someone mentioned an upcoming meeting or a strategy that needed to be coordinated with the Dark Lord, Draco felt panic creep into him. He really didn't want to die. That was not the price he had agreed to pay for the power he now held, for his status as Death Eater.

'Good' news reached them every day now: some Muggles had been killed, or a fleeing half-blood or Mudblood found, or a traitor kidnapped. Sometimes it said that Potter or one of his friends had been captured. Draco had never known what to feel. Relieved? – Because the war was over now. Or desperate? – Because the Dark Lord would rule forever and Draco surely wouldn't survive that. But they'd all turned out to be canards.

Draco did know about the kidnapped classmate in the dungeons, but he tried not to think about her too often. There was nothing he could do anyway. He couldn't free her. She was a silly Ravenclaw, a member of the D.A., and had, all in all, totally deserved the treatment she got. Why then did it bug him so much? Why did he feel … _guilty_? Why couldn't he suppress the feeling of wrongness that overwhelmed him ever so often?

When a new morning dawned grey and rainy, a dark sense of foreboding overcame Draco, and instead of studying for his NEWTs, he sat down in a thick armchair and watched the flames dance in the fireplace. This helplessness was gnawing at him, and all he could do was channel it into rage to not turn completely crazy. After staring at a glass figurine with the Malfoy's family crest – _Sanctimonia Vincet Semper_ – and realising that there was not an ounce of truth in it, he finally snapped. He grabbed the damned thing and hurled it across the room, relishing in the sound of shattering glass. Without thinking, he grabbed the fire poker and swung it against an antique vase from the 18th century, the crashing sound only feeding his rage instead of calming it. He felt like his hands were tied to his back and he was standing in front of the executioner, and the only thing he could do to escape that feeling was punch, and scream, and thrash.

Finally, completely out of breath, he halted as he registered the pain in his hands. Looking down, he realised that his knuckles were bleeding and his left wrist was sporting a long cut.

"Fuck," he muttered and drew his wand.

However, before he could repair any of the damage, his father entered. He didn't even bat an eye at the destruction that greeted him, but strode purposefully up to Draco, scrutinising him.

"Care to tell me why you're bleeding?" Lucius asked, his voice sounding almost soft, softer than Draco had ever heard him speak before.

Draco gritted his teeth. As if it wasn't obvious. But he knew that wasn't actually what his father wanted to know. It was one of these thinly masked attempts to ask how he was feeling. But Draco didn't care to answer.

He knew they were under surveillance, every move, every conversation monitored, and there was nothing he could say to explain the rage within him and not appear like a traitor.

So he shrugged, muttered something barely audible, and set to repair the room. His father stared at him for a moment, waiting for him to talk to him, but when Draco didn't respond, he just sighed and poured himself a Firewhiskey.

They didn't talk much after that, just stared into the flames or the empty Firewhiskey glass in silence.

He knew his father had received a lot more than he'd bargained for, and somehow Draco couldn't bring himself to blame him. Yes, this mess probably had been Lucius' fault, but when Draco looked at his grey face, noticed how he leaned heavily on his cane, he saw a broken man. His father was no longer the arrogant, proud patriarch of a pureblood family. He was no more than a shadow of himself.

 _That's what happens when you align yourself with a power-hungry, dictatorial madman_ , Draco thought bitterly. _It never plays out in your favour._

Suddenly, the door to the drawing room burst open, violently startling him out of his bitter musings, and his mother entered. In her tow were Greyback and some other Snatchers, who pushed five dirty figures forward. Draco froze, his eyes flickering around the room, as if searching for an escape although he knew that there was none. He didn't dare to look at the prisoners. He didn't want to know who it was.

"Draco, come here," his father ordered as soon as a certain name was mentioned. He was now to identify Harry Potter – finally captured. Could it be? Draco didn't want to know. Maybe as long as he didn't look at the boy, he could prevent everything from happening. Maybe as long as he didn't look at him, it could be Potter or someone else – just like Schrödinger's cat, dead or alive.

"I don't know… I'm not sure!" Draco replied in a shaking voice, finally glancing at the prisoners. The boy in question was barely recognisable, his face swollen and the hair dirty. But he knew where to place the red hair of the other boy and the bushy curls of the girl. Weasley and Granger. After so many months on the run – why had they been captured _now_ of all times? Draco wished he were far, far away, so he didn't need to tell his parents who was right in front of them. But, unfortunately, his father and mother caught onto the fact that it could be Weasley and Granger pretty quickly, pressuring him to identify the Gryffindors.

But Draco couldn't. He just couldn't. Not only because he feared for his life, should the Dark Lord arrive, but also because it felt so terribly wrong. He knew his father thought that this was their way back into Voldemort's good graces, their way back to power and supremacy. His father would sacrifice everything for that, _had_ sacrificed his family for that before. But Draco didn't intend to make the same mistakes. Power was nothing to him anymore. All he wanted was a life that was worth living. And he would never be able to live with himself if he gave up the only people that might end this war. Maybe – for the first time – he _could_ make a difference in how things went, would no longer be a puppet on a string, a pawn in a greater game. But before his mind was able formulate any plan of action, Bellatrix appeared and plunged the world into chaos.

After Draco had transported the stupefied Snatchers to the courtyard, he didn't dare return to the drawing room for a few minutes. The screaming had started. He wanted to press his hands on his ears and hide somewhere, tune out the terrible screams that seemed to rip his insides apart, but he couldn't. He knew he had to go back in. Even if it felt like rusty knives had been stabbed into his gut. So Draco mentally prepared himself, summoned his inner Slytherin, and entered with an expressionless face.

Granger – _the girl, just any girl, Draco_ – lay on the floor, twitching and screaming in pain. At once, he focused his eyes on his mother, reciting the recipe for a complicated potion in his head. But the screams were still there, echoing from the walls, sounding barely human. Nausea rolled over him, and if he hadn't been ordered to get the goblin, he might have been sick on the floor. Finally, the girl stopped screaming.

His help would be too late for her anyway. There was nothing he could do, he had no power over her fate, except … Draco's eyes wandered to the wolfishly grinning werewolf. He knew what would happen to Granger if she were to become his plaything. But he shouldn't care about that, he mentally chastised himself. He had seen it happening many times before. So why did it bother him now?

 _Wrong_ , a little voice inside Draco's head hissed, _it has always been bothering you, but normally, you simply accepted that this should be their fate. So, why not with her? Why is she different?_

 _Why, indeed?_ Draco wondered.

Bellatrix interrupted Draco's pondering, announcing the arrival of the Dark Lord in an excited voice. The logical part of Draco's mind reminded him that maybe now, since they had captured Potter, he wouldn't die, he wouldn't be punished. Still, panic washed through his veins, paralysing him. In a few seconds, the monster would be back and bodies would litter the floor.

It was only a question of chance whose bodies it would be. Draco understood that the Dark Lord would stop at nothing to get what he wanted, would kill any of his most trusted followers in his reach for more power, for dominion over the whole world. Because that was what he craved. But Draco wanted no part in that. He had no desire to see the world burn, didn't wish for power over Muggleborns and half-bloods anymore, and didn't want people to bow to him. He just wanted _out_!

Just a heartbeat later, before Voldemort could appear, the prisoners stormed the room, apparently having escaped from the dungeon. Red jets of light zoomed in every direction as curses started to fly. Draco's fight-or-flight reflexes finally kicked in, and he drew his wand. He couldn't let them escape now. The Dark Lord knew about Potter, knew the Malfoys' part in their capture … and their escape. If the Golden Trio managed to flee, the punishment for his family would be severe. And, much as Draco wished for things to be different, he was too much of a coward to act on that.

But Draco's efforts at stopping the prisoners were in vain. Potter disarmed him with an ease that left him shocked. Things were happening too quickly all of a sudden. Before he could seek shelter, the beautiful chandelier crashed down on Granger and the goblin, sharp slivers of glass cascading over the room, ricocheting from the floor and walls and slicing every piece of skin they could find. This managed to effectively scatter the fighters, who tried to find protection from the deadly rain of glass. Draco quickly covered his eyes, but he could feel the crystals slashing his face. Blinded by tears and blood, he stumbled forward, attempting to hide behind one of the armchairs, but he tripped and crashed to the floor only a few metres away from Granger. Their eyes met for half a second and Draco could read the pain in them, wishing he could undo the past. Bellatrix, in her strive to serve the Dark Lord, crossed every line there was. She _enjoyed_ the torturing, the fear, the power she had over others, so unlike Draco himself.

Before anyone could react, Dobby suddenly emerged from the shadows to save Potter, and since all their opponents were either unconscious or disarmed, nobody could stop them. They would make it out, Draco realised. They would make it to freedom. From then onwards, it was an easy calculation for Draco. Stay and get to feel Voldemort's wrath or escape with them.

"No!" he screamed and launched himself at the prisoners, the same second they all took Dobby's hand. He dug his nails into someone's ankle, desperately trying to hold on to them.

And then, everything went black.

* * *

 _ ***** Written for the Houses Competition, Year 2 - Round 6*_

 **House: Ravenclaw**

 **Category: Themed**

 **Prompt: "** Care to tell me why you're bleeding?"

 **W/C: 2, 657**


	5. Chapter 5

"Have you gone mad?" Lucius Malfoy barked, staring at his son incredulously. "Do you want to eradicate our family traditions, everything we stand for?"

"And what _exactly_ do we stand for?" Draco retorted, rage spilling into his voice. He had hoped this conversation wouldn't end in an argument. He had tried his best to stay calm, composed, but his father's stubbornness had made it impossible. "Our name is forever associated with Voldemort."

Lucius flinched violently, his hand tightening around his cane.

"Don't you dare do that – shy away from his name. _Voldemort_ ," Draco laughed bitterly when Lucius winced again. " _You_ brought this on us! You alone. The least you could do is support me when I try to change our image for the better."

Lucius held his son's gaze for a moment, trying to regain his self-control; then he sat back down on his chair. "I know you're hurt, and bitter, and resentful. I know you hate me. But this is not the way." His voice was eerily calm, almost detached.

"You think I'm doing this because I want to get back at you?" Draco stepped forward, his hands shaking with anger. "You don't understand, do you?"

"I –"

"Of course, you don't," Draco interrupted him. "You have no idea how hard it is to carry a family name when it means nothing; how it is to be looked down upon, to have your past held against you every single day. We're tainted, we're _nothing_ anymore, father!"

"Nonsense. We're still purebloods. That means something!" Lucius hissed.

"But it doesn't, father, it doesn't," Draco replied, his voice cracking. " _Sanctimonia_ _Vincet Semper_ is not true, and I won't force my son to wear it." Suddenly, he felt hollow. The rage had vanished, leaving him empty and broken.

Lucius closed his eyes for a second. "You can't change our motto, Draco!"

"I'm the head of the family now. I can, and I will. This is my decision, and you'll have to live with it, just as I had to live with your decisions," he said, determined, summoning all his strength to look his father straight in the eye. Silver met silver. Neither of them blinked.

After a long moment, Lucius looked away. But Draco knew he hadn't won yet.

"Mother agreed, you know," Draco added, delivering the final blow. " _She_ liked my suggestion."

Lucius flinched violently, but didn't reply. Narcissa hadn't spoken to him for a long while. They lived in the same house, but they were far from being a married couple.

With an elegant movement, Draco drew his wand and wrote fiery letters into the air. _Fiat Iustitia, Et Pereat Mundus._ "Let there be justice, and let the world perish," he translated.

Lucius snorted. "And you think _justice at all costs_ will sound better than _purity will always conquer_? You think people will like you for that?"

"You misunderstand, father," Draco replied almost softly. "It doesn't mean justice at all costs – at least not to me. It means that the world will perish _if_ there's no justice." He hesitated. " _We_ deserve justice. I want to do something good, something right. We made mistakes, but we paid for them. There's no reason Scorpius has to pay for them, too."

Lucius head snapped around. "Scorpius? You and Astoria decided on a name?"

Draco nodded.

Lucius drew in a sharp breath, then let it out slowly. "Your mother will love it," he said quietly, but suddenly his voice turned sharp again. "But still. You will not ridicule our family by changing the motto it has carried for hundreds of years. I won't allow it."

Draco shook his head tiredly. The times his father had been able to order him around were over. "You have no power over me."

"You sure about that?" Lucius threatened.

"Yes," Draco replied simply. "Goodbye, father."

Lucius struggled to his feet, his eyes burning. "No! I'll disown you. I'll-"

Draco shrugged and turned to leave. "I don't care."

He was already at the door when he heard his father move after him. "You will not do it!" he yelled, his voice jarring.

"Watch me," Draco hissed, leaving his father's office without looking back.

* * *

 _ *****_ _Written for the Houses Competition, Year 2 - Round 7*_

 **House: Ravenclaw**

 **Category: Short**

 **Prompt:** [Speech] "You have no power over me." "You sure about that?"

 **W/C: 693**


	6. Chapter 6: The Trial

**A/N: Before the story starts, I want to say: Lucius being present at Draco's trial is probably AU because he should still be in Azkaban or so. My interpretation here is that he was allowed to watch it. Or maybe, I just wanted him there so that he'd see what he'd done to his son!**

 **Also, I have no idea about law, or Wizarding law for that matter, so such a trial might happen in a totally different way. Sorry for any mistakes!**

 **Thank you to my betas: Andy, AJ, Alixx, and 2D!**

 **This piece is called "The Trial", that's why included a quote from Kafka's book.**

* * *

 _"But I'm not guilty," said K.  
_ _"There's been a mistake. How is it even possible for someone to be guilty? We're all human beings here, one like the other."_

~The Trial by Franz Kafka

* * *

On the day of Draco Malfoy's trial, it rained.

 _Rather fitting_ , Theo thought bitterly. He had come to the conclusion that the trial was a sham, and that his best friend's trial would be all for nought. They were all biased against him anyhow. After they had thrown Draco into the Detention Centre – a place all Death Eaters were held until their trial – nobody but his mother had been allowed to visit him. Theo himself had only narrowly escaped an arrest, and it was only because his arm wasn't corrupted by that despicable tattoo which would have marked him as a follower.

This trial wasn't about justice, it was about getting revenge. They – the Ministry, the 'winning side' – hated Draco because his actions had helped Voldemort rise to power. He had hurt them, and so they lashed out and hurt him back. They wanted him to feel some semblance of the pain they had all felt. It made them look good in the eyes of the public, Theo supposed. Yet, it was no more fair on Draco. He didn't deserve that.

The atmosphere in Courtroom Ten was tense and the silence felt oppressive. The visitor's gallery was full with reporters, gossiping and watching all those present like hawks; Draco's parents were also in the audience, stiff and expressionless, mindful of the watchful eyes trained on them. Even the Golden Trio sat as witnesses on the sideline - they had agreed to testify on Draco's behalf. Theo didn't understand why, but he hoped that their testimonies would save his friend from Azkaban.

At precisely nine o'clock, the Wizengamot entered, their purple robes filling up the benches until all the seats were taken. Every single one of them was present for the trial of a teenager.

 _How pathetic_ , Theo thought derisively.

As soon as the older witches and wizards were seated, the door opened again and Draco was brought in by two Aurors. A low gasp echoed eerily through the room as everyone took in his appearance. Theo had known that the Detention Centre was bad, but not _that_ bad.

Draco was clad in new clothes that hung loosely on his too-thin frame. The crisp white shirt couldn't hide the purple shadow of bruises that crept up his neck, along his wrists, and decorated his right cheek. Not even the two Aurors supporting him could conceal his limp; it looked like something was seriously wrong with his right knee. Draco's face, however, betrayed nothing at all. He sat down almost smoothly. With a low jangle, the cold metal shackles wound painfully around his arms. Draco didn't grimace or flinch, but Theo noticed that his face paled ever so slightly. It was a gut-wrenching, painful sight.

 _This is so wrong, so terribly wrong_ , Theo thought. He wanted to leap to his feet and free his best friend. _How can they treat him like this?_

Theo might not show it, but he would rather swallow red-hot coals than watch Draco get hurt. Draco was _more_ than a friend to him; he was a comrade-in-arms, and he loved him like a brother. He was the only one who understood how it was to have a Death Eater for a father - it had forged a bond between them since childhood. But since school, their bond, their friendship, had become even deeper. They knew secrets about each other that they shared with no one, not even Pansy. Theo knew that Draco used to sneak into the Room of Requirement to play the acoustic guitar - and not the plain, boring music his parents would have approved of, but Muggle rock music. In his parent's eyes, it would be a scandal - Lucius would have an heart attack if he learned of it. Theo also knew that Draco was scared that his parents wouldn't accept Pansy as his girlfriend because they thought her shallow and avaricious. He had eavesdropped on them talking about a 'suitable' marriage with a French pureblood girl he didn't even know. Theo understood his fear since he was in similar situation. Draco knew that Theo was in love with someone he shouldn't be in love with, at least by their parent's standards, and he had never held it against Theo in any way. They loved and protected each other like a real brother would. That was why Theo couldn't just watch and let Draco be thrown into Azkaban without a fight.

Suddenly, the Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt cleared his throat to silence the room. "Welcome. We are here to determine the guilt of one Draco Malfoy." He paused dramatically. "Mr. Malfoy, you are accused of willingly joining the Death Eaters, of attempting to murder Albus Dumbledore, of using the Unforgivable Curses, of conspiring to bring Death Eaters to the grounds of Hogwarts, and finally you are accused of the torture and capture of Ms. Hermione Granger. How do you plead?"

These charges were nonsense in Theo's opinion, and the Wizengamot knew that. Draco had had no choice whatsoever in any of it. But hate could make people do stupid, petty things.

When Draco answered, he didn't look up at Kingsley nor did he glance at his parents; instead his eyes were merely fixated on a blank spot on the wall of the gallery where the Wizengamot sat and ogled at him as if he was a criminal. No, as if he was scum.

"Guilty," Draco replied clearly without a quaver in his voice.

A gasp surged through the room like a wave, and Theo could hear the furious scratching of quills on parchment. He saw Narcissa slump forward as if she had been punched in the gut. That was how Theo felt as well, like someone had taken all of his air from him.

 _What the hell is Draco up to?_ he wondered.

Kingsley cleared his throat again, also showing surprise at Draco's response, and continued, "What were the circumstances of you receiving the Mark?"

Draco seemed to sigh, his posture slacking, but he remained stubbornly silent.

"Mr. Malfoy?" another wizard asked, but Draco didn't react.

Theo watched the Wizengamot exchange glances, some shrugging, some frowning deeply. They disliked being ignored.

"Let's move on then. Did Lord Voldemort give you the order to kill Albus Dumbledore?" Kingsley asked almost gently.

Again, Draco was unresponsive. He ignored the way the witches and wizards in purple robes wrinkled their noses and whispered to each other, he ignored the way Rita Skeeter leaned forward, her quill scratching furiously over her notebook.

Kingsley's gaze wandered to the three Gryffindors sitting in the front row, as if to ask them for help, and then back to the pale boy on the chair. "Mr. Malfoy, you are aware that presenting your point of view contributes in great part to your defence?"

This time Draco looked up and murmured, "I am."

"It will hurt your case if you remain silent, lad," an older wizard threw in. "So please tell us, what measures did you take to attempt the murder of Headmaster Dumbledore?"

Draco gritted his teeth and said nothing.

"It seems he's not interested in building his defence," a sourly looking witch remarked dryly.

"Is that true, Mr. Malfoy? Do you not wish to defend yourself?" Kingsley asked, surprised.

Draco nodded once.

Theo bit his lip to stop himself from screaming at Draco for his stupidity. _What is going on in his head?_ But who was he kidding – he knew exactly what was going on. Draco was convinced that he was guilty. He _wanted_ punishment, as if that would make up for his role in the war. He was masochistic enough to believe that _this_ was fair.

Guilt could do many things to a person, Theo knew that, but to make him believe he deserved going to _Azkaban_? Didn't he know what it would do to his parents, how much it would hurt them, Theo, and Pansy?

"Well." Kingsley shifted uncomfortably. "We will have to continue with the witnesses. We call Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore to the stand."

* * *

Harry glanced at the mirror where Dumbledore's portrait could be seen. The eyes of the old wizard sparkled sadly when he returned Harry's gaze. As much as he hoped that his testimony was enough to help Malfoy, he wasn't sure about it.

"Now that all the witnesses have presented their testimonies, the Wizengamot will withdraw to discuss this matter. The judgment will be delivered tomorrow at eight," Kingsley announced after Harry had left the stand.

Harry was seeing things much clearer now, and he understood that Azkaban would kill Malfoy. Harry had had enough death in his life, and he didn't want to carry the blame of another person's death. He simply had to try to 'save' Malfoy from that terrible fate. He had lost so many people he loved - his parents, his godfather, and so many friends - he wouldn't wish this pain upon anyone else. Harry knew that there were people who loved Malfoy, his parents or Pansy, for example, and the grief of losing him would probably break them.

Ron thought it was his 'hero-complex', but that wasn't true. Much as Harry still despised, if not hated, his childhood rival, he didn't wish for him or his family to suffer like this. He had seen what the Detention Centre had done to Malfoy.

Hermione understood, and she, even more than him, had tried to find a way to acquit Malfoy. She didn't have an ulterior motive nor did she expect gratitude from the Malfoys. No, she did it because she was kind and generous. A good person, a much better person than he, himself, Harry mused. She had even teamed up with Pansy Parkinson, of all people, to draw up some kind of petition to get him out of the Centre early, not that it had helped. Parkinson's motivations were clear, at least. She loved the blond ferret. That much was obvious.

Harry wouldn't know what to do if the the person _he_ loved was wrongly accused and thrown into Azkaban. Hell, if Ginny was taken … He would move heaven and earth to save her. So, much as he disliked Parkinson, he understood her motives. Draco was lucky to have someone who loved him as she did.

Hermione's hand came out of nowhere and grabbed Harry's while he focused his attention back to the courtroom. Two Aurors had hauled Malfoy to his feet and dragged him cruelly from the room.

In a split second, Harry made a decision, stood up, and walked deliberately, yet nonchalantly, out of the courtroom. He _needed_ to get Malfoy to testify, to plead his own case; or at the very least, not remain silent. As soon as he was out of sight of the reporters, he broke into a sprint. The Aurors with Malfoy in tow had just rounded a corner.

"Wait," he called after them and caught them just in front of the lifts. "Wait," he repeated, panting slightly. "Could I have a minute with Mr. Malfoy?"

"Mr. Potter, that request is out of the question. You'll see him tomorrow at sentencing," one Auror replied politely.

Harry smirked at him. "As you well know, I'm an Auror, too. I get it, and I assure you that I know the protocol. So, can I have just one minute?" He hadn't had a good look at Malfoy before, but now his gaze wandered over him. He looked completely _broken_ as Harry hadn't ever imagined someone could have been.

"Mr. Potter, I'm afraid that's impossible. If you have something to say, say it now," the other Auror said brusquely.

Malfoy tilted his head a fraction of an inch, as if to ask what was going on.

"Um…" Harry hesitated for a second to long, and then his chance to say something was over.

The Auror smiled. "No? Then we're leaving." With that, he pulled Malfoy into the lift, and the doors closed in front of Harry. He made half a step forward as if to stop them, but the metal box had already zoomed upwards. Malfoy's gaze, however, stuck in his head.

The Slytherin had been so cool and collected until _that_ moment, but then, raw panic and dread contorted his face into a grimace.

* * *

Draco flinched when the heavy chains clamped around his tender wrists.

It was time.

He tried not to hope too much for a lenient sentence – the Wizengamot _had_ seemed convinced by Potter's and Dumbledore's testimonies – but he couldn't help it. He knew he couldn't - shouldn't! - escape Azkaban. Every Death Eater _had_ to end up there. It was a deserved punishment for the loathsome, foulsome pain they had caused. But maybe, just _maybe_ , they would reduce his sentence, and he would make it out of there alive someday.

Funny, how a Detention Center could change your mind. He knew he had deserved it, he knew he was guilty, but he still hoped for freedom, to see his parents again, laugh with Theo, and pull Pansy into his arms...

 _Stop that_ , he reminded himself. _Don't hope for too much._

He _still_ didn't think he could be loved or that Pansy should love him – or even like him – but he wanted her to. She had stuck with him through last year, stuck around through all the ups and downs, just like Theo had. She was his saving grace, the thing he held onto in a world of hate and darkness.

Kingsley cleared his throat – it seemed to be a nervous habit – and Draco looked up. He hadn't noticed the Wizengamot enter.

"Mr. Malfoy, following careful deliberation, the Wizengamot finds you _guilty_ on three charges: first, of the attempted murder of Albus Dumbledore, second, we find you guilty of using the Unforgivable Curses, and finally we find you guilty of conspiring to bring Death Eaters to the grounds of Hogwarts."

A low moan echoed through the room, and Kingsley held up his hand to silence the audience before continuing. " _However_..." He waited until the whispers had died down. "However, mitigating circumstances have to be considered. We acknowledge that your actions were under duress, and, since Professor Dumbledore and Mr. Potter testified that you wouldn't have carried out the illegal acts otherwise, we sentence you to pay damages of ten thousand galleons, and you are required to complete your last year in Hogwarts. Furthermore, you are forbidden to use magic during that time, except at classes. You will have to report to the Auror's office regularly for a check on your spell history. If you break the terms of your parole, you have to fulfill the rest of your sentence in Azkaban. Do you understand , Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco nodded numbly. His ears seem to be filled with cotton wool, everything sounded muffled.

"As for the other two charges you were accused of, you are found _not guilty_ of willingly joining the Death Eaters, and we find you not guilty of the capture and torture of Ms. Hermione Granger. The matter of The People vs Draco Malfoy is hereby closed," Kingsley continued with a weighty voice.

And just like that the trial had ended. It was possible that more things were said, but Draco couldn't hear a thing. The relief that flooded through him made everything unreal, the colours too bright, the voices muffled, the faces blurred – well, most faces.

He could clearly see his mother sitting in the second row to the left, Theo and Pansy almost hidden in the back. They hadn't given up on him as he had feared.

A marvellous feeling spread in his chest – the warm, fuzzy feeling of being loved – and, for the first time in a long time, he smiled.

He was finally free.

* * *

 _ ***** Written for the Houses Competition, Year 2 - Round 9*_

 **House: Ravenclaw**

 **Category: Themed**

 **Prompt: Hate**

 **W/C (excl. A/N and quote): 2, 615**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: This is technically a continuation of the themed I wrote for Round 6 (Draco's PoV on the events in Malfoy Manor), but it can also stand alone. AU. For the sake of the story, Voldemort cannot track Draco via the Dark Mark.**

 **Enjoy :)**

* * *

 _Easter 1998_

With a gasp, Draco snapped awake. He blinked, trying to piece together the darkness, but it stayed a monotonous blue-black. Coldness crept up his arms, and he shivered. Only then did he realise that he was tied up. A cold, heavy chain was wound around his wrists, securing his arms behind the back of the chair. Gingerly, he tried to shift his weight, but the magical chain held him so tightly that he could barely move at all. His fingers felt numb and his legs were stiff; he must have been out for hours.

He couldn't really remember what had happened after escaping Malfoy Manor with the prisoners. As soon as he had realised the Golden Trio were going to make it out, make it to freedom, it had been an easy calculation of risk for him. Stay and feel the wrath of Voldemort, or get away with them.

One moment, he had been standing on one side of the room, watching them take Dobby's hand, and the next he was launching himself in their direction, his nails digging into an ankle. Then his world had turned black, and a light, hazy, sky-blue and golden yellow was the last he had seen. He faintly remembered being surprised by a salty, tangy breeze hitting him. So he assumed that he must be at a sea shore.

Everything had happened so fast that he had no recollection of the following events. He only suspected that someone must have knocked him out.

The chains bit uncomfortably into his wrists as he shifted his shoulders and head to look behind him. It was too dark to make out any surroundings, though. Draco wondered if it might be nighttime. The colours shifted from purple, to black, to blue, and back to black again. His eyes were playing tricks on him in the shadows.

The Golden Trio must have apparated to some sort of Safe House or the Death Eaters would already be at their heels. And regarding Draco's locations, he suspected he was locked in the cellar of said house. And that it was near the sea.

He couldn't help but smile at the irony of the situation.

Now would be the time to think of a good escape strategy, Draco thought. But – where would he go? He'd be all alone, no wand, no money, no friends. That sounded more like a dead-sure plan to be captured and killed in days.

What was the alternative? Be held prisoner by the Trio? - No! But maybe he could … _change sides_? He didn't dare to think about it.

Voldemort must surely believe him defected anyway since he'd ran and hadn't made contact ever since. So why not act like it? It wasn't like Draco was still convinced of the Dark Lord's ideology. Actually, his life would be a lot more pleasant if that evil bastard was dead.

However, that meant working with bloody Potter, the blue-eyed ginger, and the bossy know-it-all.

Draco groaned loudly. Had he really sunken so low that he'd consider helping his former enemy? His pride forbade that. But, if he was being honest, there wasn't much of his Malfoy pride left. Draco felt empty and exhausted. Dead. He felt dead inside. And he just wanted the war to be over, no matter what.

Suddenly, unwanted images pushed themselves into Draco's mind - one of the most strikingly horrific moments in his life. This idea of switching sides also meant working with the girl with chestnut hair and eyes full of pain. He didn't know why, but he hoped she was okay. She hadn't deserved the torture.

The Gryffindors wouldn't trust him, of course, Draco told himself. After all he had done, after what he had watched someone else do without even attempting to interfere; they would want him to pay, to be punished. So shouldn't he rather try to escape than try to win their trust? But the ice-cold chains around his arms reminded him that there was no escape for now.

So the question remained – what did he really want?

* * *

After a few hours, the cellar door was eased open, and Draco still hadn't made a decision. A wand was lightened silently, and he had to close his eyes against the periwinkle brightness surrounding the white orb. When he peeked through his lashes, he discerned two bulky shadows in front of him, one with bright red hair, the other one with glasses.

 _Shite._

"You're awake. Good," Potter said flatly. "Now we can talk."

"Would you mind lowering your wand?" Draco mumbled between gritted teeth, still squeezing his eyes tightly against the glow.

"Ron?" Potter muttered and extinguished the light. But only a second later, an ice blue, nebulous ball of light appeared from out of nowhere and illuminated the small room, hovering just beneath the ceiling.

"Why did you follow us, Malfoy?" Potter's voice startled him. It sounded cool, matter-of-fact, as if he was really interested in an honest answer. But Draco could feel the rage, the hate, emanating from the black-haired boy.

He pressed his lips together and looked away. This question wasn't as easy to answer as they imagined. Besides, he hadn't decided on a plan of action yet.  
"I told you, the git's not going to talk," Weasley whispered, turning to Harry and throwing Draco a sidelong glare.

"Well, until he does, he can rot in here," Potter replied, shrugging.

For a second, Draco was tempted to promise them that he wasn't a spy, that he had only used them as a means of escape, but the look on their faces stopped him. He could clearly see the hate in their eyes. They wouldn't believe one word he'd say. They wanted to see him suffer.

So he stayed quiet and stared into nothingness while they continued to ask him questions he couldn't answer.

Finally, Potter and Weasley left, taking the light with them.

* * *

It felt like an eternity before the door was opened again. Judging from the dim blue light that fell down from the narrow window, a whole day had passed. Potter had meant what he had said. They'd left Draco to rot in here. Hunger had come and gone, and Draco's whole body felt numb, having sat there, unmoving, for so long. The chains had hindered his blood flow, and he wasn't sure he could move his fingers, even if he wanted to.

The light from the opening door was bright enough for Draco to recognise Potter and Weasley. A sudden fear sprung to his mind. What if the girl was badly hurt? Why didn't she come to interrogate him, too?

"Where's Granger?" his stupid mouth asked before he could stop it.

Ron launched himself forward and landed a well-placed hit in his face. Pain erupted on his left check, but Draco didn't groan, just looked back at them. He had endured worse.

"Don't you dare to say her name with your worthless, Death Eater's mouth!" Ron spat and shrugged Potter's hand off his shoulder. "I should beat you some more for what you did."

Draco focused his eyes back on the wall behind them. "You should."

Ron growled, but no further punch hit him. Maybe Potter held him back.

"Our questions are still the same, I hope you'll answer this time, Malfoy," Potter said, trying to sound calm and collected.

Draco didn't react and stared at the wall. The little illumination cast on the scene left fading, cerulean shadows painted on the brick. They hadn't believed his answers yesterday, and they wouldn't believe his answers today.

"There must've been a reason you followed us," Potter continued with an unusual softness in his voice, and Draco dared to cast a quick glance at the boy. His features weren't as contorted by hate as last night, but still…

Draco opened his mouth and closed it again.

It was useless. If he couldn't justify his actions to himself, how could he justify them to his enemies? The truth was that he wanted the Dark Lord dead and gone. The reason for this was fear, fear of dying, fear to see his parents die. But they wouldn't understand. They only thought him the monster that stood by and watched their best friend be tortured.

The self-hatred that hit him at that thought was wholly unexpected, and Draco cringed.

"Why did you ask for Hermione, then?" Potter asked, not giving up so easily.

Draco sighed and directed his gaze back at the stone wall.

"Maybe we could punch it out of him," Weasley whispered, seemingly enthralled by the idea.

"Yes, because that works so well, doesn't it?" Draco sneered and regretted it at the same moment. _Idiot, idiot, idiot._

"What do you mean?" Weasley hissed, taking an aggressive step forward.

Draco bit his lip hard and ignored him.

"Answer me!" Weasley demanded and forcefully turned Draco's face so he needed to look at them. Draco stared into Weasley's blue eyes blankly. He had already said more than he should.

"Ron," Potter sighed, pulling his friend back a little. "He doesn't want to talk."

Damn right, he didn't.

"But what if we offered you a deal?" he continued. "Water for an answer?"

Draco winced involuntarily. _Water_. Images of the azure liquid filled his mind - the wonder of it, so blue, and clear, and wet. His mouth felt like sandpaper, and Potter knew it. How cruel they were. But what did he expect? He was the monster, after all.

Quickly, Potter left the room and came back with a bottle of water. "Come on, Malfoy, it's a good deal. Just tell us what you meant."

Draco stared longingly at the bottle; seeing it right in front of him seemed to multiply his thirst. But even if he did answer, how would they know he said the truth? Would they trust his words?

The opportunity, however, was too good to pass up. He had always been weak. The thirst was just too much. His tongue was heavy and dry and he swallowed with difficulty.

His eyes found Potter's green orbs, and he confessed with a raw voice, "I said it because I know people lie when being tortured. I … I've seen it." He closed his eyes to ward off the memories. "I lied. The girl lied. Simple as that."

He could see how Weasley clenched his hands into fists, his whole body as tense as a spring, ready to jump at him again.

"How do you know she lied?" Potter asked dangerously calm.

"I don't. I just guessed," Draco shrugged and looked pointedly at the water bottle.

The dark-haired boy nodded slowly, unscrewing the lid. "Fine." He let the reviving liquid drop into Draco's mouth, but stopped after a few sips.

Draco growled in protest, but Potter either didn't notice or didn't care.

"So why ask for Hermione?" Weasley threw in, stepping into Draco's vision, hazed with blurring images of the sea, and rain, and cascading waterfalls. Potter's lips pressed into a thin line. That obviously wasn't the question he wanted to be answered first.

Draco closed his eyes. _Weak, weak, weak_ , he scolded himself. He shouldn't have agreed to this game. The little bit of water had only made him thirstier. He wanted to answer so badly, even though he knew they wouldn't believe him.

"Last chance," Potter warned him suddenly, starting to slowly tilt the bottle so that drops of precious water fell to the floor. "We won't come back until tomorrow."  
Draco stared at him. "And you wonder why I hate you."

Potter only smirked.

Draco squinted at the dwindling amount of water and made a decision. "Fine. Stop!" He swallowed hard. "I was worried about her. My aunt is …" He didn't know how to continue that sentence.

"Liar!" Weasley snarled and hurled himself at him. "I know you just stood there and watched it, probably enjoyed it, eh?" His punch hit Draco square in the stomach and he gasped for air. The chains clawed themselves into his tender wrists as he doubled over in pain.

But the redhead wasn't done. "Do you think you can fool us?" he yelled. Another punch hit Draco's nose, and he heard something crack. "You fucking bastard." Weasley pushed him backwards. Momentarily, Draco panicked as he felt himself falling without being able to cushion the impact because the magical chains held him in place. Then his chair hit the floor with a crash, and Draco felt almost excruciating pain spike through his arm.

Weasley didn't care, though. "She's miles better than you are, Death Eater scum." Two kicks pushed the air out of Draco's lungs and made tears form in his eyes.

It took him a few gulping breaths before he could open his eyes again. But the both of them were suddenly gone. Potter must have dragged the lunatic out. Draco moved his unhurt arm carefully and realised that the chain binding him was no longer attached to the back of the chair. The wood was splintered and broken. With gritted teeth, Draco freed himself from the chair, but the shackles around his wrist wouldn't move. Gingerly, he stretched out his arms and fiery pain shot through them as the blood began to circulate again. His right arm hurt like a bitch. He hoped that it wasn't broken from his fall.

Whimpering lowly, he curled up in the darkest corner, farthest away from the door. He wanted to cry, but he didn't want to be weak. So he channelled the pain into rage, cursing himself for his stupidity to trust Potter.

The water was gone, too.

He really should have known better.

His nightmares were in shades of blue.

* * *

Draco startled awake when the cell door creaked open, and instinctively, he pressed himself deeper into the corner, not daring to look up. The steps that entered were lighter than Weasley's and smoother than Potter's. Draco had learned quickly to distinguish steps. They told him if he should run and hide, or stay where he was. Such things were essential to know in a house reigned by a madman and a school haunted by sadists.

They were definitely girl-steps. That meant …

Carefully, he glanced up at her.

Hermione was closing the door behind herself and something clicked. Draco flinched at the sound, but it was only the light being turned on.

Suddenly, Draco's senses were attacked by the delicious smell of food. Real food. Something hot, maybe a soup, and the crisp smell of fresh bread. The harsh yellow light was a horrifying contrast to the cold, saphire light he had endured.

He closed his eyes. Hermione was even crueler than the boys. To bring food he wouldn't be allowed to eat, just to see him suffer.

"Are you hungry?" Hermione asked lightly and approached him. "Fleur made it, not me. My cooking skills are path –" She stopped in mid-sentence, and he looked up to see what had startled her. Shock was obvious on her features. "What happened?"

Draco frowned. What was she talking about?

She freed herself from her immobility and rushed at his side. The tablet with soup and sandwiches was put down carelessly on the floor, and she drew her wand.

 _Oh._ She was going to hurt him, to curse him, to get her revenge. However in vain it was, Draco pressed himself to the wall as if he could melt into it. Maybe if he pretended she wasn't there, nothing would happen.

" _Episkey_ ," Hermione whispered.

Draco suppressed a groan when his broken nose was set.

"Oh, your hands," she said, and it sounded almost like a sob. " _Relashio_."

The metallic chains fell from his wrist, hitting the floor with a clank. This time a hiss escaped Draco's lips, a sound between pain and relief. He hadn't realised how heavy the chains had been until he was free of them. Carefully, he brought his arms to his front, relishing in the feeling being able to move his strained shoulders and to stretch his arms fully. His wrists were bruised from the shackles and a small trail of blood flowed down his right hand, where the metal had ripped his skin.

He'd never felt so relieved in his life before. He was no longer helpless and chained up like a criminal - like an animal.

But when he moved to rub his bruised joints, pain jolted through his arm and he gasped.

"What's wrong?" Hermione asked instantly. "Is it your arm?"

Draco glanced at her and then back down at his hurt arm, on which he had fallen. Why would she heal him? She hated him! But she _had_ freed him from the damn chains.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake!" Hermione cursed and grabbed his hand roughly. Draco yelped in surprise and tried to flinch back, but he was already pressed against the wall. No escape.

She didn't acknowledge his panic and waved her wand over his wrist. At once, the pain subsided. "Anything else?"

Draco shook his head, avoiding her gaze. He felt so guilty that he couldn't bear to look at her. She was still a little too pale, and he could see the edges of a white bandage under her sleeve. It felt like her injuries, her pain, were his fault alone.

Hermione scrutinised him. "Let me put some salve on those cuts. They look ugly," she finally said businesslike, pointing at his face where the broken chandelier that had almost fallen on them at the Manor had left its traces.

Draco shook his head again in jerky movements.

"Why not?" she asked.

Quickly, he turned his head to the wall and whispered as low as possible. "Don't waste it on me."

Hermione huffed. "I'm back in a minute." Swiftly, she stood up and moved to the door. "Eat the soup while it's still hot," she said over her shoulder and then left.

Unbelieving, he stared at the bottle of water, the hot soup, and the sandwiches on the plate right next to him. For him? Really? Maybe it was poisoned?

 _Well, there are worse ways to die_ , he thought and grabbed the bowl. The soup was indeed still hot, and he didn't bother using a spoon; he just gulped it down, not caring that it burned his tongue and throat. When he finished it, he opened the bottle of water and eased the burning with it. Maybe she would take it away from him again, when she came back. He downed the whole bottle and had nearly finished both sandwiches when Hermione returned.

"Here," she breathed and kneeled down next to him. She offered him a tube with the promised salve.

Draco only stared at it until she sighed. "Fine. I'll do it." With a wave of her wand, she cleaned his face and began to apply salve to various parts of it. He tried to ignore how good it felt.

He was behaving like a coward, and he knew it. But he just didn't know how to handle this situation. All control over his life had been taken from him the second Voldemort had ordered him to kill Dumbledore, and it had felt like dying, an ice blue compression on his life. And with every day that passed, with every bottle of Firewhiskey he finished, with every threat and every curse, he had died a little inside ever since.

And now he was just _dead_ , and still dying. Would it ever stop? His only survival tactic was to retreat into himself, ignore that he was still unable to control the situation. He wasn't even able to make the simple decision of running again. He was tired of running.

Then, there was the Golden Trio. And he didn't know how to handle them. Cruelty he knew, so Potter's and Weasley's treatment hadn't surprised him. But kindness; kindness unsettled him. And unchaining him, bringing him food, had been kind.

"What happened, Draco?" asked Hermione's gentle voice. How could she even address him? After everything he'd done? And, _Draco_?

He swallowed audibly, but still didn't answer. It didn't feel right to talk to her.

"You're not acting like your usual self, you know," she clarified. "But at least your face is as good as new."

He nodded, "Thanks." His mother would be proud. Manners and all that. Or maybe she wouldn't be. Accepting help from a Mudblood.

Against his expectations, Hermione didn't stand up and leave but sat down next to him. Not close, but close enough. Draco could almost feel her warmth in the freezing room. He could swear that his fingertips were tinged aquamarine, as if dipped in iridescent paint, from the coldness of it.

Her soft eyes searched his gaze. He didn't trust these eyes; they seemed like traps filled with compassion and worry. He hadn't deserved any of these notions.  
"Do you want more?" Hermione's gaze had trailed to the empty bowl and bottle.

Draco closed his eyes. That game again. "And which question do you expect me to answer for that?" he asked bitterly.

She gasped. Maybe because of his words, maybe because he finally spoke.

"Oh, don't act so innocent. The 'good Auror, bad Auror'- act doesn't work on me." He curled himself back into a tight ball and stared at his knees. She wouldn't get him to say anything else.

"Just answer me this," Hermione said quietly. "Why won't you talk with us?"

Draco snorted. "Would you believe anything I say?"

She swallowed. "I don't know. Try me."

He laughed darkly. Nice try, really. She must think him as stupid as they come. All he wanted was to be left alone. At least, here he was safe. He could just sit this one out and wait for Potter to kill the sodding Dark Lord. "I know you can't let me go and, honestly, I wouldn't know where to go if you did, but…" his voice faltered, "but could you just leave me in peace? I'm no danger to you."

"True." Hermione shrugged. "So you didn't come after us to stop us?" she speculated.

He knew she watched him closely, so he tried to give nothing away. She was just too clever, he needed to change the subject. "How's your arm?"

She flinched. "Hurts."

Moron! Why did he ask that? Of course, it bloody hurt. "Go on," Draco breathed, barely audible. "Hurt me back."

She was silent for a few moments. "You weren't the one who carved it."

"But I stood there and watched, didn't I?" He looked up and saw just what he expected to see. Unfiltered hate and pain. They stared at each other for a few moments; then she stood up and rushed out of the room, crashing the light off in a flailing arm.

Good.

Maybe she wouldn't come back. He didn't need her to take him on as her next pity project because she expected to find some deeper truths hidden inside him. There were none.

He was a coward – that was all there was to him.

Tears burned in Draco's eyes. Tears of pain, and loneliness, and despair. So he sat in the dark blue room and cried for the boy he once had been and the boy he had become.

* * *

 _ ***** Written for the Houses Competition, Year 2 - Round 9*_

 **House: Ravenclaw**

 **Category: Themed**

 **Prompt: chain**

 **W/C: 3,871**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: This can be seen as a continuation of the previous chapter, but it can also stand alone. It's also AU.**

 **Enjoy.**

* * *

 _April 1998_

Draco had just managed to fall asleep when the cellar door was opened. His fight-or-flight instinct kicked in at once, driving him to his feet. He half expected to see Voldemort's gaunt form - maybe the evil wizard had somehow managed to trace Draco to the safe house where he was currently held prisoner. He wasn't entirely sure how long he'd been here since he couldn't really remember what had happened after escaping Malfoy Manor with the Golden Trio.

But it wasn't Voldemort; only Potter entered. Draco never would've expected to feel relief at the sight of Wonder Boy, but he did.

It was probably early morning, from the look of Potter's messy hair and the dark circles under his eyes. The expression on his face, though, confused Draco. He looked … contrite.

"It's okay," Potter whispered suddenly, holding his hands up in front of him to show Draco he carried no wand.

Only now did Draco realise that his breath came out in panicked gasps and that he pressed himself into the corner, like the rabbit in front of the lion. It took him great pains to relax his posture, but his social training hadn't been for nothing.

"What are you doing here again?" Draco asked in a strained voice. He vividly remembered Potter's and Weasley's last visits, and they hadn't been pleasant. They'd asked him questions he couldn't answer – about why he'd followed them and what he was planning. The problem was that Draco didn't know himself. He'd just grabbed the opportunity with both hands to escape the evil madman that would certainly punish him for letting Potter escape.

Sighing, Potter fished something out of his back pocket. Automatically, Draco tensed, but it was only a water bottle.

"I came to apologise for…" Potter hesitated for a second, blinking, "… our behaviour. Just because we were treated cruelly, doesn't mean we have to return the favour."

Draco's mouth nearly fell open, but he didn't dare to make a snarky comment.

"Here's my peace offering." The Gryffindor threw the bottle to Draco, who caught it with shaking hands.

Draco wanted to unscrew the lid so badly, to gulp down half the bottle to quell his thirst, but he restrained himself. "What? No silly questions today? Why the change of mind?" he asked, something akin to his usual sneer in his voice.

Potter shrugged. "Hermione …" He didn't need to finish that sentence. They both knew how vehemently she advocated human rights, but it still surprised Draco she considered him human enough to advocate on his behalf.

"Then, thank you," Draco muttered. "But this doesn't change anything."

Slowly, Potter approached him, and Draco had to press his fingers into his palms to keep from backing away. "Something you said to her made her think you didn't follow us to _stop_ us. Is that true or were you lying to cover up your true intentions?"

Draco cursed himself inwardly. He shouldn't have let his guard down with that girl. She was too clever for her own good.

"Ah. We're back to not talking again, aren't we?" Potter chuckled silently. "But it doesn't make sense. Why else would you follow us? Tell me!" He was closer now than Draco felt comfortable with, and he discreetly tried to slide away from him.

"Maybe I _did_ want to stop you," Draco hissed, but Potter shook his head.

"Liar."

"I'm a spy! Is that what you want to hear?!" he spat.

"I don't believe you."

"Maybe that's the problem, then. You won't believe anything I say, even if it's the truth."

Potter sighed. "Valid point. I need to make sure you're not going to flee, or betray us, or do anything to endanger us."

"How could I? I'm locked up," Draco snapped almost aggressively. He was so sick of their conversation going in circles.

Potter shrugged, turning to leave. "That's what I'm trying to find out."

Draco snorted, staying upright until the door clicked shut behind Potter, then he crumbled to the floor. What had he gotten himself into?

* * *

This was the first night Draco was able to fall asleep. He couldn't stay awake anymore, watching the door. He was dead either way if they decided to kill him.

However, his restful sleep was cut short by one of his usual nightmares. Draco swallowed the metallic taste of blood down – he'd bitten on his bottom lip to not cry out – and blindly felt for the water bottle.

Suddenly, something sharp pierced his fingers. Shite. The plate with dinner. He must have thrashed against the chair and it'd fallen down.

Running footsteps told him that someone had heard him. The door was ripped open, and Potter stormed in, ready to – what? Fight him? Stop his flight attempt?

"What happened?" Potter bellowed, pointing his wand at the corners of the room.

Silently, Draco gestured at the broken plate. "Sorry."

Potter let out a slow breath, calming down. "You startled me," he murmured, as if apologising.

"Weren't you sleeping?" Draco asked, but it was a rhetorical question. He knew that he also would've awoken at any suspicious noise.

"And you?" Potter returned the question.

Draco shrugged.

"Nightmare?" he speculated. "You look like shite."

That, Draco knew. A Malfoy always looked orderly, respectable, well-groomed. If his father saw him like this, he'd have a heart attack.

"Come on. Let's get you a shower and some clothes," Potter offered in passing, as if it weren't important. He left the room, but the door stayed wide open.

Draco stared at it. Was it a trap? Maybe he wanted to lure him outside and throw him off the cliffs?

"Are you coming?" Potter looked around the corner.

"I…" Draco objected quietly, "I don't think whoever this house belongs to would want me to use their bathroom."

"Eh," Potter made a dismissive sound. "Bill and Fleur won't mind. Come on, Malfoy."

Hesitantly, Draco stepped forward, ready to dodge any hexes coming his way. But nobody attacked him, not even when he climbed up the stairs and entered the hallway.

The house was eerily quiet. Draco's breathing seemed too loud, and he feared he might wake someone.

"Here," Potter whispered, opening the door to a tiny bathroom.

"You don't think I'll run?"

An amused smile crept on Potter's lips. "You could try. I'd love to have a reason to curse you."

Draco shivered. "No, thanks. That one, _Sectumsempra,_ was quite enough."

Potter's smile vanished.

Quickly, Draco turned and locked the bathroom door to escape the uncomfortable situation. The shower felt heavenly. He soaked himself in soap twice before he felt something akin to clean.

Suddenly, soft knock on the door made him freeze.

"I put some clothes for you here and a toothbrush," Potter's muffled voice informed him.

"Thanks," Draco replied, stepping out of the shower. Wrapped into a towel, he opened the door an inch and pulled the items inside.

Without thinking about the Malfoy dress code, he slipped into the jeans, T-shirt, and slightly worn pullover. It was _orange_. He'd never wear orange, not at home nor in Hogwarts; not on a normal day anyway. But now wasn't normal, and Draco certainly wasn't home.

 _Never look a gift hippogriff in the mouth_ , his mother used to say.

After Draco had brushed his teeth, he felt like a normal human being again. Before he returned, he took the time to look out of the window. The sun peeked over the horizon and the heath-like landscape lay in a gloomy half-light. The black granite-cliffs rising from the mist, the booming turf, the wheeling gulls; it all seemed very familiar to Draco, like he'd been here before. _Could this be Cornwall?_ he wondered. The sight evoked painful memories of a happy childhood, a carefree world without a Dark Lord, without the constant threat of death.

Very, very carefully, he eased the bathroom door open, but nobody pounced on him. A breath of relief escaped his lips. He tiptoed down the hall, freezing when the wooden floor creaked. Draco suddenly noticed light in the living room. He couldn't resist casting a last glance at the rest of the house before he'd be confined to the cellar once more. He was surprised at how homely everything looked, poor compared to the Manor, but comfortable.

"Tea?" Potter's voice reached him, and Draco flinched.

Reluctantly, he followed the voice into the kitchen. "I –"

"Here." Thrusting a cup of hot tea in Draco's hands, Potter sat down. "I want to talk to you." Draco's mind raced. What did Potter want? More information?

"Sit," the Gryffindor insisted. Draco pulled a face and hesitantly sat down, facing the entrance.

"You look better," the dark-haired wizard remarked casually, playing with the cup in his hands.

"I don't think we're quite at the small talk stage," Draco replied blankly, not meeting the other boy's eyes. He felt a sudden rage boiling up inside him. He hated that he felt so scared, so defeated, so bloody tired, all the time; he hated that Potter was nice to him because he didn't know how to handle a nice Potter; he hated his own indecisiveness, hated himself for every stupid decision he'd made; and it all only added to his frustration of being a prisoner once again. Before he hadn't been locked up, true, but he'd been far from _free_. "Where are we anyway?"

Potter gave him a suspicious look. "Why do you want to know?"

"I think…" Draco paused, turning his head to the window and frowning in concentration, "I've been here before."

"Stop lying," Potter snapped, his fists clenched. "That's not possible."

Draco shrugged. "If you say so." But he was sure now – they were in Cornwall, not far from Tinworth. He remembered spending a holiday here when he was younger. It felt like lifetime ago.

"I'm sorry." Potter took a calming breath, relaxing his fingers. "I didn't mean it. Damn, I just –" Potter ran his fingers through his hair. "I just wanted to let you know that they're alive. Your parents."

Draco's heart stopped for a second, and he drew in a strangled breath. " _What_?"

"I – I can get into _his_ head, and I saw …" Potter swallowed thickly.

Draco scrutinised him. He'd had that monster in _his_ mind, but that Potter was going into the mind of the monster?- He couldn't imagine it. "Thanks," he rasped. He didn't really want to know what Potter had seen; for now, it was enough that they were maybe not okay but alive. Quickly, he took a sip of the tea. Potter did the same, avoiding his gaze.

Suddenly, a hysterical laugh burst through Draco's lips. He and Potter, sitting peacefully in a kitchen and drinking tea – he wouldn't have imagined it in his wildest dreams. The situation still seemed quite unreal to him. Sleep-deprivation could do many things to a mind. But this was too absurd to be Draco's imagination.

Potter threw him a strange look but said nothing. Silence stretched between them.

Emptying his cup, Potter stood up. "You should sleep a little." He nodded towards Draco, then left without another word.

Draco didn't know what to do now. Go back to his cell? He downed the tea and was just about to stand up when a wave of tiredness hit him like a punch in the gut.

Draco squinted at the cup and sniffed at the remains, recognising the characteristic smell of Dreamless Sleep Potion. _Sodding Potter_. He must've added it in secret to – what? Why would he drug him?

But Draco's mind was too tired to answer these questions now. The potion pulled him under quicker than he'd expected it to. He didn't even manage to stand up but passed out on the kitchen chair, his head on the table.

* * *

 _ *****_ _Written for the Houses Competition, Year 2 - Round 10*_

 **House: Ravenclaw**

 **Category: Short**

 **Prompt:** "I've been here before." / "Stop lying."

 **W/C: 1,962**


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